Jorgen studied the grounds of Loc Morred; the shifting grey of its masonry drawing his eyes. The castle held a decadent beauty for Jorgen as he studied the arrayed soldiers, their burnished helms bearing the wyvern fins of the Aislans, their azure cloak brushing the sodden earth. They shuffled uncomfortably, readying themselves in preparation for the rebellious Duke’s entourage. Jorgen thought of his own home in the far North. Vindaheim was as opposite to Isladoone as the East and West. The Aislan Accord was to be signed two days from now, a treaty to maintain the peace of Isladoone which had been sundered by civil war. The ducal entourage approached with golden horns blaring, the advance guard riding ahead.

The two sizeable forces allowed a distance between them. There was bad blood between the armies. In the middle of the space a mounted finger rode with two companions. Already waiting there were three figures, one carrying a green flaming torch. The Duke and his companions dismounted from their horses and strode towards the three figures awaiting them. Jorgen waited until he got closer to focus on who the figure was. Trystan Lothdale of Seaward wore thick leather armour with overlapping plates sewn on it. The sigil of his house spread its wings across his chest, the Peregrine Falcon. His coal black hair blew in the wind, his rapier hung at his side.

Guardsmen circled the Duke at a distance with deadly grace, ready to cut an escape path through the king’s men. These men were enemies, the azure and silver of the falcon opposed the gold and turquoise wyvern. In a sea of blades, a lone fisher bird is caught within the tempest of turmoil, a tempest of civil war. Trystan’s cloak was blown viciously in the gusts of sea air, which pervaded the meeting. A young woman strode alongside him, her golden hair split by two braids falling down her back. She too wore the azure and silver of the falcon, a thick cloak shielded her from the wind.

A tall man loomed behind them; black hair flowed down his head in wild tangles. His robes were a deep blue with copper at the cuffs with tapered edges. A dirk hung at his side as well as a rapier. An air of sullenness surrounded him. So this was the lord of Gracepoint; he had allied himself with the Duke after Usteon had stolen vital trade routes. Trystan promised him that he would restore the trade routes stolen from him in addition to giving him the seat at Hullsbane. The banners of Gracepoint and Seaward blew strongly amongst several other banners. King Usteon dismounted and approached Trystan with welcoming arms.

Accompanying the King was his Lord Justice and his elderly Lord Archivist. The Lord Archivist carried a green flaming torch. Jorgen studied the emerald flames of the wyvern fire, it was once said that if it burned you, the pain would never go away, an everlasting fire. The wyvern flame was a sacred sign, the sign of the guest rite protecting the guest that came under his hall.

The Lord Archivist hobbled forth, he stumbled after the first step, but he caught himself. Dylrik was his name; he had been the Lord Archivist for many years. The man’s limp caressed the floor leaving a dragging hollow in the mud, creating something beautiful, something indefinable. The lord of Gracepoint stepped forward meeting the man, he held the old man as he stumbled once more. Jorgen noted that Lord Dansen, not Trystan accepting the flame, it would be important for the ballad. The flame was important; any Baerdling worth his sanctums knew that.

Something like fear danced along his skin, Trystan does not know what will happen here. The wyvern flame burnt deep as Dansen returned to his leader’s side. He rode his bannerman into the grounds first as an advance guard. He stood resolutely at the castle’s gates before raising his banner to his liege lord to signify that it wasn’t a trap. Trystan drew and raised his rapier then galloped into the castle with his guards and wife by his side. The beauty of the Duchess was important, beauty was often one of the clinchers in ballads and Jorgen knew his ballads well. Once the Ducal sortie had ridden through the gates, they were closed and fanfare rung through the halls as the Duke and his men were shown their quarters.

After they were settled, the Duke, the Duchess and his lords were invited to dinner with the King. Sitting alone on a table was Dansen, Dansen’s curly black hair fell to his shoulders, and he stared deep into the goblet before him. Jorgen sat down in the chair opposite him.

“Theralian wine is strong stuff.” Jorgen said. Lord Dansen looked at him dispassionately, and looked again to his cup.

“What do you want, Baerdling?” Dansen asked.

“I wonder why you are not with the other lords and the Duke.”

“That is for the Duke and his companions. The young often choose amongst their own as companions.”

“Lord Bryant is hardly young.”

“He is a man seasoned in war. Who better to advise the Duke in war matters?”

“A man of war should not be needed at a treaty signing.” Dansen snorted, glancing at the duke. “Peace is a dream fools idolise because they think that they can control the chaos.”

“So Duke Trystan is a fool?” Dansen looked up from his goblet, he stared Jorgen in the eye. Dansen suddenly reached out to touch the violin pin on Jorgen’s doublet.

“A Baerdling, your people are law unto themselves. You and your Baerdlings play your deathly wails and expect everyone else to see it as a work of art.”

“I thought a better question would be why a Baerdling is invited to a treaty signing. I am not here to play ballads.”

“You’re witnesses; you witness events so that you can play your sordid ballads. Put your own spin on them.” There was a sudden ringing sound as the King banged his goblet with his spoon. He waved for the lords and ladies to be quiet and bade them to listen to him.

“To the Duke, once we would have shed each other’s blood but now we drink a red liquid of a different sort, Theralian wine.” The Duke hesitantly stood up and he raised his own cup.

“To the once sundered houses of Lothdale and Blackwood, to Usteon, he is a great warrior and a man who knows his way around a battlefield.” Dansen then stood up distracting Jorgen; he approached the royal table and choosing the seat next to Lord Bryant. He positioned his chair a little bit away from them and he sat staring at the exchange between the two men.

“I have someone that I wish to meet.”

“Jorgen come forth.” Usteon commanded.

Jorgen rose from the table and hesitantly strode towards the King. When he reached the table he bowed and nodded to Trystan. The young Duke nodded in return and his lady wife, the duchess rose from her chair. She was a fine woman indeed; she had all the beauty of a Bellachian maiden, but there was something about the way that she moved. There was something odd about it. She moved uncomfortably. Jorgen did not like uncomfortable people; there was something off and unsymmetrical about it. It was disorder, and disorder only brought chaos and chaos was ugly.

“This is Jorgen, a Baerdling, hailing from Vindaheim. He has come to us as the blessed witness. He will swear oath by the flame and chain that my hospitality shall be all that you will receive from us.”

Jorgen looked the king in his eyes; those emerald eyes were as dangerous as any wyvern fire. Jorgen felt sick, Usteon will break the oath, and I will be cursed as an oath breaker while he will come off as the King that killed a dissenter under his own hall. By the flame, you’re a bastard, Usteon. Removing his wyvern cloak, the king nodded for the Duke to join him for a walk in the grounds. There was sudden movement as Dansen stood up from his chair, hesitantly staring towards his liege lord. Dansen’s posture was tight and the man seemed worried.

“I will be fine Dansen, sit amongst friends. Drink deep of the wine tonight and feast happily. The king and I must put the past behind us and look forward to the future.” Dansen sighed and sat down; he began to talk to elderly Lord Bryant.

“Jorgen, come sit with me.” It was the Duchess Merrin, she beckoned him to sit. Jorgen nodded sitting next to the Duchess. The hall felt too small, closing in on him.

“Now Jorgen, will you tell me of your home? I have yet to visit Vindaheim.” Jorgen tasted the bile, he felt sick, sicker than he had ever known.

“Vindaheim is a beautiful place, to see the falls and the rolling hills belittle those in the south. The beauty of the Duchess was not lied about however.”

“You make me blush, Master Baerdling.”

“I am not a master, merely a wayfarer. Will you tell me of your home, I have seen little of your country?”

“Isladoone is not my home; I used to live in Havensedge in Bellach before I met Trystan. My mother and father were looking to marry me off to some old lord until a young lord that appeared to take my hand.”

“Did you love him at first sight?”

“Love is a complicated thing Jorgen, I only met Trystan a few days before we were wed. But we share a bond. A bond I am thankful for.” Jorgen thought that he couldn’t feel any more regret than he had felt but he was wrong.

“Is there someone who awaits your return?”

“No, your grace, there is not. I have yet to fall in love.” She placed a warm hand on his arm, an arm pulsating with life, with kindness

. “A time will come when you meet someone. You’ll feel in that moment that you have known that person your entire life. That is what I have found with Trystan.” The doors were pulled open by the guards as Usteon and Trystan entered the hall. Trystan looked paler than he had before he had left with the king. The king just glanced around the room with those cold emerald eyes.

“Merrin, it is time that we rested. King, we beg your leave?” Trystan bowed.

“Do what you will, Duke.” Merrin stood up and turned to Jorgen, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Goodnight Wayfarer, I hope that you enjoy your night.” Jorgen bowed to her, leaving the royal table. There was something about the way that she walked, the way she held herself. As Merrin turned around, Jorgen saw the truth, the damning truth. Merrin was pregnant.

By the Flame, damn Usteon, that flaming bastard. Unsavoury work, the king had called it. Killing women was not something that he took pleasure in, but killing a child was too far. When the doors were closed behind the ducal couple, Usteon approached him. Bowing, Jorgen felt the pommel of his dagger. A king’s blood was said to be purple. Royal blood is as easily shed as a commoner’s, and by the flame would it be radiant.

“Why did you not inform us that the Duchess was pregnant?” Jorgen asked

“I did not believe that it was important.”

“It was of great importance, we are the wayfarers not babe-killers. We will not kill the Duchess.”

“I never intended to have you kill the Duchess; there is a hidden dagger which creeps ever closer to Trystan when he does not realize it. Killing the Duchess will break him more than killing any of his liege lords. That is what I want to do; I want to break him before killing him.”

“Dansen is the traitor, isn’t he?”

“How intuitive of you, yes Dansen is the traitor.”

“That is why he accepted the Wyvern flame instead of Trystan. What was the cost of his loyalty?”

“He will become Lord of Hullsbane, Gracepoint and Seaward castle.”

“He will spill her blood because I will not. Know this, king. You have sundered our services from tomorrow night onwards. You ask too much, I hope this man is worth the bloodshed because I will not hesitate to take a contract to kill you, know that, king.” The King nodded.

“Write me a ballad of blades, Baerdling. Then we shall go our own ways.”

Next Chapter: A Dance Of Daggers